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The Story of My Life
and IVork.

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BY

BEN HOPE

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THE GAFFNEY LEDGER

GAFFNEY, S. C.

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THE AUTHOR

ASPIRATION.

Holy, Eternal and changeless Goodness at tms
joyous season, (the "good old summer-time,") we
would join the ever beautiful voices of Nature in
praising the wisdom and the Goodness of Nature's
God, and we ask Thee that we may be ever swift in
learning the lessons Thou hast set before us, swift
and perfect in reading that holy volume that is
written in rock and rill, mountain and valley, flower
and fruit, everywhere, for the instruction of these
children, Thy little earth-born babes who are strug-
gling toward the threshold of knowledge. Oh, Holy
Spirit of Light and Love Divine, guide us in our
search for knowledge and for truth, and may we
ever do Thee honor in seeking and in finding and in
worshiping Thee in the inner Life of all which Thou
hast created. Hold us ever in the Bosom of Thy
Love. What matters it whether the storms rage
wildly around us, or whether we sit in the calm star-
light of Love and Peace? Thou art ever with us
and Thy strong arm is our sufficient shield. Thy
mighty Love will ever sustain us and become thro'
our earnest efforts our Light, our Life, and our
Holiest Love forever and forevermore. Amen.

—Selected from the author's Scrap Book.

INTRODUCTION.

"Books are the food of youth, the delight of old
age; the ornament of prosperity, the refuge and
comfort of adversity; a delight at home, and no
hindrance abroad: companions by night in traveling;
in the country." — Cicero. And may my book meet
these requirements!

"Yes, do send me a book. . . . Not a bargain book,
bought from a haberdasher, but a beautiful book,
a book to caress — peculiar, distinctive, individual
A book that hath first caught your eye and then
pleased your fancy, written by an author with a
tender whim, all right out of his heart. We will
read it together in the gloaming, and when the
gathering dusk doth blur the page, we'll sit with
hearts too full for speech and think it over." —
Dorothy Wordsworth to Coleridge.

Such a book, gentle reader, is "The Story of My
Life and Work," written by the Knight of the Pen.
Yours very truly,
James Stanhope Love ("Ben Hope.")

The Story of My Life and Work

CHAPTER I.

Iwas bom on the morning of the eighth of March,
18S7. My home is in the Western section of York
County, South Caroline, about seven or eight miles
clue west of the town of Yorkville, the county seat,
and about two or three allies Southwest (if I mis
take not?) of Beeisheba tresbyterian church, of
which house of worship I am a member. It is situ-
ated on a small, poor, and rather lonely farm, right
near two running streams which are known as
Buckliorn and Silver Creek, — names purely local in
their origin and use. It is just a small, ordinary
log house to which has been recently added a
dress of weatherboarding, such as most people
live in away down here in the Sunny South. It was
built by my father, Mr. William James Love, about
thirty years ago, in what was, at that time, a thick
wood of pine and oak timber. But since then all
of those great woods have been cut down and clear-
ed away, and so I now (July, 1909) live out in the
open country; — where the sky is bright and blue,
where the little birds sweetly sing in the trees,
where the wildflowers bloom, and perfume the
atmosphere with their fragrance; where the air is
pure, refreshing and sweet, and where the "dry

fly" sings its beautiful summer song— "all summei
long."

About six or seven miles &. little Northeast of
my home, lies Filbert, a small flag station on the
Carolina and Northwestern Railway which ex-
tends from Chester, South Carolina, to Lenoir,
North Carolina, — if I am not in error. It is situated
on a high, dry, smooth, sandy, gravelly spot about
half way between Yorkville and Clover (South Car-
olina), And somewhere in the section of territory
rather West or Northwest of where I live, lies
"The Nation"— a neighbrhood so named because of
its supposed ignorance, vulgarity, superstition, and
illiteracy. I have never visited "The Nation," and
so I cannot, here and now, speak with a perfect
knowledge of conditions in that place. Neverthe-
less, I am, in view of certain facts with reference
to the weakness of humanity and of all human
flesh, almost constrained to believe that the peo-
ple over there are not nearly so bad as they have
been portrayed by their neighbors. For Ave all
know the weakness which people have always had,
— and, I suppose, always will have, — for misrepre-
senting men, things .and conditions.

Other points of local interest around here, which
are near to my "place of abode," are: The Chapel
and New Zion, Methodist churches; Enon and
Union, Baptist churches, Ramah and Beth-Shiloh,
Presbyterian churches; Smyrna, Hickory Grove and
Sharon — the* latter three being small towns, of
which Hickorv CJrove is the largest. And other

*

names, altogether local in their origin and use
around my Southern home, are: "The Locust Hill,"
"Cotton Belt," "Sandy Flat," Cain's Spring— where
they used to have great picnics, and "The Coaling-
Ground" — where they used to make whiskey, be-
come intoxicated, "cuss" and fight among them-
selves, and live and pass away in ignorance and
illiteracy. These are the names of sections of no
mere than just local interest, I know; but our peo.
pie love them, I might say, even as all people love
and cling to their own respective names, neighbor-
hoods and local traditions. And, too, I might add
to this paragraph the fact, that I've heard it said
that there never yet has been a person found, who
would willingly admit that he or she came from
"The Nation" — although "The Nation" does cover
considerable territory in Western York, I know.
But that is, after all, neither here nor there, I sup-
pose. For who wants to ever boast of being a
"Nationite"? Certainly not one have I ever seen,
who had any wish to lay claims to this "eminent
distinction" which isn't eminent.

We have no telephones, no telegraphs, no .auto-
mobiles, and no railway trains running in our back-
woods home. It is therefore almost an old-time com-
munity, I might say; although we do have one
store, one school house, and the great R. F. D.
Ours is called Filbert No. 1, by reason of the fact
that it was the first route, — and, as yet, it is the on-
ly one,-— to issue from that place. It was instituted
on November the 15th, 1904, with Mr. William A.

Carroll as its carrier. He lias carried the mail on
it ever since with, eminent ability. Mr. H. S. Love
is our lone merchant-farmer in this settlement of
"cottontots"— if I may be permitted to use this ex-
pression with reference to them. And I know that
they really merit such a title; for cotton is their
principal crop.

The R. F. D. is a grand thing for us, and I am
quite certain that nobody has ever appreciated it
more, or been more deeply grateful to its author for
it, than I am today. Therefore I exclaim: All honor
to the eminent and distinguished Georgian, Hon.
Thomas E. Watson, for his invaluable services in
securing the R. F. D. for us country people. May
his name never be forgotten; may his fame be
deathless; and may this system always remain in
our country, as a monument to the honor of the man
who had the interests of the common people at heart
while he w^as a member of Congress! "Tom Wat-
son" loves his country with all the intensity of his
kindly, sympathetic, fiery, passionate nature; and
he labored for its welfare, when he was in Congress,
with powerful ability.

T have visited Yorkville and Filbert, passed
through "Cotton Belt" and by "Sandy Flat," at-
tended preaching at Beersheba, Beth-Shiloh and
Union churches; but have seen none of the other
places named in the foregoing, except The Chapel
and Silver Creek — a small stream about one-fourth
of a mile south from my little log cabin home. It
is a clear, fast-flowing stream, the water of which

10

nearly always remains warm and silvery-looking
in the summer sunshine. And so our people have
called it Silver Creek. Buckhorn is .much larger
than the one which I have just described, and some-
times it rises out of its banks, and sweeps away
everything in its path that can be swept away.
Woe unto all crops that may be found growing near
its banks when once it overflows, too; for generally
there is nothing worth while left of them. This
stream received its name from the horns, or antlers,
of the male deer — called buckhorn after it has been
made into some useful article. There was once,
when the pioneers first came, a very great abun-
dance of game living, and roving about, in the al-
most unbroken forests of York County; but those
good old hunting days have long ago made their
departure — nevermore to return, I suppose. There
'now remain only a very few small birds, rabbits
squirrels, opossums, and— here and there in the
creeks about over the country— a few small mem-
bers of the finny tribe to tell the story of what
used to be. Ah! what changes time does bring
about! To think it all over g/ves one a peculiarly
sad, sweet, serious feeling — for which I would not
take all of the gold that might be in the world to-
day unless I could still retain the power to fee!
as I now feel while pennng these words.

The land in my neighborhood, tho' still very fer-
tile, is not so good and productive as it once was,
but corn, oats, wheat, peas, cotton, and almost any
thing else that is of value, or in any way contributes

11

to the prosperity of the farmer, can be raised in
this place. And so vve all love our home-neighbor-
hood quite -as well as any neighborhood ever was
loved. Long may she live!

My immediate family connections are neither
large nor rich, but they have always been respecta-
ble. They are the descendants of those Loves (in
Ireland pronounced Luve) who along with num-
bers of other settlers, emigrated from Ireland to
this country some time during the eighteenth cen-
tury, and pioneered this section of the Palmetto
State — whose motto is ''Ready with our lives and
property." My great-grandfather Love was one of
these devoted patriots who assisted in vanquishing
the British and the Tories at the battle of King's
Mountain, during the Revolutionary war. My family
names are Love, Land, Davidson • and Chambers —
but it is scarcely necessary, I suppose, to go any
farther into detail along this line here. So I will de-
sist for the time being.

Now I will close this chapter of my story. I
could go en for several more pages, but I fear that
my readers have already become tired of its slow-
ness toward growing into a real, live, complete
narrative. Therefore, I shall add only one more bit
of information, pertaining to my own old home
neighborhood, to this chapter, in order that my
readers may the more readily understand that
which is to be narrated in the following pages, to-
wit:

The family names, native to this place, are:

12

Love, Caldwell, Brown, McElwee, Cain, Davidson,
Land, Wallace and Smith. These are the names
of the oldest and most prominent families who live
in old "Buckhorn" — which I am sometimes pleased
to call this section.

Said James Montgomery, in speaking of his own
native country: "I love thee, O my native Isle!"

Therefore, the Knight of the Pen might well say,
in view of the foregoing pages which describe his
home community, and in view of that which still
remains to be written about it in the following
pages, — yes, I repeat, he might well s,ay: 'T love
thee, O my own native Backwoods Home!" P'or I
am devoted to South Carolina,

CHAPTER II.

I am a shut--in, having never been able to walk
,a step during the whole twenty-two years of my
life. I am not a physical weakling, in a literal
sense. I just cannot walk; that's all. My general
health is good, and I eat and sleep well. When I
was yet quite small the late Dr. Bratton, of York-
ville, " gave me medical treatment — but it was of
no avail whatever. My complexion is fair, my hair
is dark and very heavy, my eyes are blue and have
ia half-sad, half-glad expression issuing from their
depths; my forehead and chin are broad and deep-
set, and T am a small man. Having been compelled
to sit all of my life, T am therefore rather stoop-
shouldered, and my limbs are not. very well de-

13

veloped. I can stand up on my feet by catching
hold of something or other as a support; and I can
see, hear, talk, read, write and study just as weli
and with just as much satisfaction, as anybody else
ever did or ever will.

I have never attended school a day, have never-
been father away from home than ten miles, have
never ridden in a railway train, have never been
inside of a "Temple of Justice," have never seen
the wide sea; and there are besides these, many
other things which I have never seen — neither have
I clone. But I am happy! Nothing has ever trou-
bled me except my own physical weakness, and my
inability to satisfy the cravings of my physical self.
It is true that, several times in my life, the future
did seem dark and forbidding. Yet, the Father, in
His infinite mercy, has never yet failed to give
me strength to bear my affliction, and in a spirit
which is at once heroic in, and becoming to, one
who loves to consider himself "every inch" a man.

When I was a little boy I was ill much of my
time. Scarcely a month ever came and went, in
those "seas of memory" without my being ill for
at least a few days of the time. But as I become
older I have gradually become stronger; and so
my health is now, I suppose, about as good as the
average person's. My powers of endurance, how-
ever, are much limited; and I cannot ride very tar
at one time without being tired and buggy-worn
afterward— though T can endure more today than
I once could. People have sometimes, and in my

14

healing, expressed the possibility of my one day
becoming auie 10 waiK. .mit 1 uiniK not; not om.\
because ot my own pnysicai weaKiiess, but also be-
cause ot a oeitain mournful presentiment which has
long been in my mind. Ah me! the world will
never know just how difficult it is i'or a man of my
nature, and my desires, to make himself contented.
But the Father has done for me what no other
power within the comprehension of mankind could
do: He has made me feel absolutely resigned to
the life of a shut-in with, all of its dreary seclusion
from the beauties and pleasures of the world which
I love so well.

When I was a boy, I amused myself by whittling.
I would sit for hours at a time making all sorts of
"little tricks," as we called them; and so I became
quite skilful with my pocket knife. I could make
boxes, wooden chains, "snakes," tweezers, ink-
stands, popguns, flyguns, .crossbows, rattles, water
guns, bows and arrows, "flutter mills" (water
wheels), wind mills and many other "little tricks"
which were of no value to me. And I did so love to
whittle! My mother would smetimes become tired
of so* much sweeping— for I kept house and yard
literally strewn with shavings — and venture to
remonstrate with me about it. But I continued my
"whittling club" until my twelfth or thirteenth
year, and then I began to seek other forms of
amusement and instruction. It seemed to me that
T had whittled just about long enough. So T must
do something else.

15

Was all of that whittling done in vain? Did I
ever gain anything in a material sense by it? No,
it was not in vain — although of course it earned me
nothing in a material way. My friends were so
kind as to bring me pine boxes from the store to
whittle, and it would have been an act of ingrati-
tude for me not to have accepted them. My little boy
friends would often request me to make something
for them — and I just couldn't refuse. And so when
I come to think it all, over, to think of the 'ittte
hearts that I may have perhaps made glad writu a
popgun, flygun, or some other such small article
which only a child knows how to appreciate, I am
persuaded into the belief that I could have speni:
my time to less advantage than that of whittling.
And I used to cut my fingers very severely, also;
but that did not cure me of any inclination to whit-
tle. The cuts would soon get well, and I would
whittle on

And right here let me tell a little incident which
might be taken in connection with the foregoing.
Once I was ill for a few days. My mother, after I
had got well enough for her to leave me for a while,
went to see a neighbor, an old woman who then
lived near us. Said she to my mother: "Well, an'
how is Stanhope? Has he got well yit? I wuz jes'
a tellin' Thomas the other day that if Stanhope died
there could nothing be said against him but that he
jes' cut sticks."

I shall now bring this chapter to an end. And
since 1 have the quoting habit, acquired from twelve

16

long years of reading, perhaps my readers will
have no objection to a quotation from Goldsmith:

"By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd,
The sports of children satisfy the child."

And after all it might, I believe, be truly said that
those things which are delights of childhood ought
not to be objects of indifference to us who have
passed that period in our journey through life.
Looking back over the days of my existence that
are gone, I can of a truth say that those things
which shine brightest in my memory are those
things which have made me feel happy. But that
will all be related in the following pages of my book.

CHAPTER III.

I have a wheel chair now, which was given to me
by my friends, neighbors and kinspeople in the year
1904. I was not aware that they had any such in-
tention toward me until most of the money whick
was necessary had been collected. Therefore it was
something more than just a "pleasant surprise" to
me, to know that I had been so very kindly remem-
bered by them. The chair is almost a blessing.
While it is not necessary for me to use my chair
when I am in the house, — for I can manage to forego
the assistance of wheels then, — it is indeed invalu-
able to me when I wish to got out of doors. My broth-
ers have, when the roads were dry, wheeled me to
some of my near neighbors' homes in it; and some-

17

times I take it to a picnic with me when I go. And
since I became owner of this chair on wheels, 1
have seen many places around, my home-farm which
I might have never seen had it not been for the
chair. I have sometimes spent one or two hours in
the woods, whither my brothers were so good as to
roll me. And oh! how pleasant, how refreshing, and
how inspiring it all was! "A day in the autumn
woods!" Oh if I could only just live again one
more such day as that I spent once in my life! But
I cannot — so "what's the use?" — to quote a popular
bit of slang.

I also have a writing desk, a clock, a French harp,
an autoharp, a trunk, a fountain pen, a number of
books and magazines, and many other little things
which go to make life pleasant for me. But that
which I prize most of all is the love and devotion of
those near and dear to me..

I have heard Senator B. R. Tillman speak. He
spoke at Filbert on July the 24th, 1906, and I was
one of those who went purposely to hear him — for
having always lived in a community of "Tillmanites,"
properly speaking, I also am a "Tillmanite." Mr.
Tillman is a big man; indeed, he has more than
once in his public career demonstrated his ability,
and it is sincerely to be regretted that he does oc-
casionally run ahead of himself. I -have attended
four big picnics in my life, and they were all at
Filbert.

Once I heard' a missionary from China speak, .and
it made me sad to listen to his description of the

18

heathenish practices of the Chinese. As he told, in
his own simple way, of how the heathen go through
so many cruelties in worshiping their gods, I was
more than ever impressed with the fact that the
whole world needs Christ.

I cast my first vote last year (1908). I voted in
the second primary election. South Carolina has,
as is almost generally known, the primary system
of nominating candidates to offices of public trust
and favor. And I consider it a fair method of con-
ducting elections in some respects, but it is not per-
fect. Considered from every point of view, it is in-
deed far from being perfect. I am, however, neither
a politician nor the son of one; so I will not, here
and now, deliver myself of a treatise on politics and
economics.

The first wedding ceremony that I ever witnessed
was that of Mr. and Mrs. A. S. C, of Hickory Grove,
at the home of the bride's parents, Mr. and Mrs. L.
B., of this place. This was in the afternoon of Wed-
nesday, September 21st, 1903; and the sacred rites
were performed by the Rev. S. H. Hay, of Clover,
who was then pastor of Beersheba church. (Mr.
Hay was, at that time, a resident of Clover; but I
am now unable to give the name of his present
home).

Among those whom I have met, at different times
in my life, and whom I am pleased to regard as
friends, are: Dr. R. A. Bratton, of Yorkville; the
late Dr. Hamb right, of Smyrna; Dr. W. G. White,
Hon. D. E. Finley, M. C, Mr. Lewis, a member of
the Yorkville bar, and Dr. J. I. Barron, of Yorkville;

19

Rev. W, T. Thompson and Hon. T. B. Butler, of Gaff
ney; Hon. W. H. Stewart, of Rock Hill, State Sen-
ator from York County, and Mr. J. S. Drakeford, who
used to publish the old Yorkville Yeoman and who
printed my first writings in his paper. I am shut
in from the world and its joys and pleasures, and
one might at first thought be rather inclined to be-
lieve that my acquaintance with the outside world
would naturally be limited to a degree. But such is
not my case — whatever it is with other .shut-in^.
For I have really seen much of those who, and that
which, go to make a world of life, vim, sorrow, ener-
gy, and pleasure. I have received letters, post cards,
books, papers, and magazines from South Carolina,
North Carolina, Georgia, Florida, Texas, Mississippi,
Tennessee, Virginia, New Hampshire, Massachusetts
and California. But what I prize most of all that I
have ever received from afar is an autograph letter
from "Tom Watson."

So I shall now bring this chapter of my story to an
end. It is not a finished record of the period of my
life of which it speaks; but it will, I hope, give my
readers information about that time sufficient to en-
able them to form some definite conclusions regard-
ing my shut-in life. Different readers will have dif-
ferent thoughts as they peruse these pages, I know;
but let me rest secure in the hope that not one
line of my story was penned in vain. Yes, permit
ine to believe that it will serve to make others, -Who
are better situated in life than I am, more satisfied
than perhaps they now are, with their conditions
and surroundings. God

§0

"Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole!"

— Pope.

CHAPTER IV.

The first and earliest thing or person, of which
1 have any definite recollection of seeing, was a lit-
tle negro, Asa — Asa Guy Byars, — to give his whole
name, who lived with his parents on my father's
farm. He was, I think, about two or three years
old, and I don't think I could have been any farther
advanced in years than he was; for I know that I
was quite small at that period of my life. It seems
as if Jt were almost a dream; still, I can yet see,
in memory, a negro woman coming in, nearly every
day, to borrow something from my mother. And
with her sometimes came a little boy, whom they
called Asa — a small, black son of Ham. The wo-
man's name was Cynthia, and she was Asa's mother.
The man's name was Bert — Bert Byars; and after
living on our farm for about eight years, he remov-
ed, with his family, to Arkansas when I was two or
three years old. He never came back to South
Carolina.

And once, when I was a small boy, there lived,
right near me, a man whose name was Mage Ram-
say. He came from "The Nation," and was, I think,
considered rather a queer personage — though he
wasn't bad. He tried to run a little store in our
neighborhood, but I remember him only as a tall,
slim, erect man, with gray hair, dark complexion,

21

and faded cotton clothes. He lived in my neigh-
borhood for one or two years; then he went back
to "The Nation," whence he never returned. And
so that was the last of my "Mr. Mage Ramsey."
(The two foregoing paragraphs may not he exactly
correct in every particular, as I am telling only that
which I can remember; but I trust they are not
far from the truth).

I remember the days that I used to spend in a
dry goods box, while my mother went about doing
her daily household duties, — singing and always pa-
tient with me; though I know I must have beefl of
much trouble to her in those days when I was small,
young, helpless, and impatient. I remember how
they used to laugh at my childish mistakes, and how
I used to so hate to be laughed at — I don't believe
that I ever shall become accustomed or reconciled
to some things, either. I remember how people
used to pity me, and try to comfort me, by asking
me such questions as "Don't you wish you could run
out and play like other children?" etc. Poor, mis-
guided friends! They were trying to comfort an
afflicted brother, but they didn't know how to do it.

I remember when my mother taught me my first
little prayer, and when she first taught me the al-
phabet. I remember how I once detested books,
and how shy I once was of the society of girls — but
how different, how different it is with me now! I
remember the happy days that I used to spend at
my uncle's home, "just across the creek" from my
home; and the fine banjo music which I used to
hear, and the friends whom I used to meet there.

22

Those who played on that instrument, in those far-
off days of memory at Uncle Sim's, were: "Win-
bush" McKnight, "Rnfe" Lindsay, Jeff Moore and
John Johnston, all colored. And they made music
too! I never seemed to tire of listening to the reso-
nant, melodious twang of their instruments. Some-
how or other, the music seemed to awaken certain
feelings in me that always left me a better boy.

I remember how I used to be carried over to my
uncle's house in some one's strong arms, and how
I once miade a journey home in the night because I
had suddenly been seized with a fit of home-sick-
ness. (I think it was generally a colored man who
would carry me thus in those clays). But after a
time I became too large to be carried, and then I
had to seek — or some one had to seek for me — other
ways of going about. My father once carried me
to a neighbor's house, to spend the evening, as the
afternoon is called among the country people; and
my brothers once took me over to Mr. Thomas Wal-
lace's home, on a small sled, which they had con-
structed after their own boyish fashion — and ac-
cordng to my directions. At another time they took
me to another neighbor's house on their sled, too.
And once I was taken over to my uncle's in a wheel-
barrow!

And I could go on and on remembering things in
this fashion, until I fear that my ever patient read-
ers might at last become too weary to read more;
but I shall desist for this time, reserving some recol-
lections for the next chapter. I have so much, and
yet so little, to tell in my book that I am almost

23

afraid it won't be just what I at first intended
that it should be: a book pulsing and throbbing
with much of my very own life. Writes Shelley,
one of my favorite poets,

"Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory,"

and somehow T feel as if I desired to echo his words,
they are so beautifully expressive.

CHAPTER V.

I have given, in the preceding pages of my
story, just an incomplete outline, as it were, of
only a part of my life; therefore I shall devote
this chapter, and the next, to a concise statement
of how I have lived and worked from my earliest
recollection until the present day.

Until my fourth or fifth year I lived in a goods
box, in the day-time, and was ill and cross. I sup-
pose I must have suffered intense pain in those
days, but I have no recollection of it if I did. My
family were generally kind to me, and so were the
neighbors. The most eminent friend that I had
then was Dr. R. A. Bratton, who has always seemed
to take much interest in me. I believe that he even
now devoutly wishes that it were in his power to
cure me of my affliction. A part of my time I spent
at my own home, and a part of it I spent at Uncle
Sim's, being tenderly cared for at both places. I
can remember the names of those who used to live
on my father's farm quite as well as if they were

24

all standing before me now, when these words are
being penned; and in my memory I can distinctly
see them all as they went about their daily labors
which my father gave them. First in memory
comes Bert, the colored man whom I have already
named elsewhere in my story; and then came Cinty,
the colored woman, and little black Asa; Owens
Brown and his wife, Dicey, a colored family; Mr.
and Mrs. Aaron Page and family, Dave, Bill and
Bessie; Mr. and Mrs. Tom Perry and family of sev-
eral; another family of negroes; Mrs. Martin and
her son, whom she called Manuel; and several other
tenants whom it is not necessary for me to mention
here, as it has not been so very many years since,
and as I am telling only that which particularly re-
lates to my life.

I can remember who played the first French harp
in my hearing, and how well I loved it then. I can
remember the first time I witnessed the painful scene
of a negro whipping his or her child, and how sin-
cerely I felt for the little victim. I can remember
my first and only death scene in our home, and
what a profound change it brought about in my life.
Ah! -little girl, whose spirit I believe sometimes
hovers near me in my dreams, I have often, but not
lately, seen you since you left us; and one day I
hope to join 3rou in your celestial home. I remem-
ber the first bicycle that I ever saw, and what a
sight it was to me then. I remember the first guitar
that I ever heard, and how sweet I considered it. I
remember how the negro men used to play on the
banjo, sing and dance in my uncle's kitchen, and

as

how I loved it all. The songs which they sang
were "Little More Sugar iii the Coffee-o," "Old Gar-
field," "Reuben," "Mountain-top," and "Sunny Ten-
nessee"— along with many others that were more
or less musical. I remember how my little brothers
used to stay with me, and draw me about pn my
little arm-chair, and how I used to insist on trying
my hand at picking cotton. And how bad I was in
those days! Sometimes I have been afraid that
I might never be able to live down some of my
passionate fits of temper! But O Father, help me
to live as I ought to live!

I remember the first fiddle that I ever heard, and
who played on it — just for me. Bob Allison, a color-
ed man, who considered himself a fine performer on
the violin indeed, was the player; and I enjoyed,
then, his playing — though it was wretched. His
tunes were "Sally Ann," "'Jesse up a Sour Apple-
Tree," "Sally Good'n" and "Bile Dem Cabbage
Down;" and I think I learned several of them from
him — for my soul has always throbbed in unison
with the soul of harmony everywhere.

I remember all about what a strange fascination
that birds of prey used to have for me, how I used
to love to lock at the buzzards as they greedily de-
voured the carcass of some dead animal, and what
strange thoughts they would suggest to my mind.
But that is only a memory now, as I have long ago
come to find other ways of employing myself than
just idly dreaming my time away.

I remember the' long, happy summer days which
I used to spend in conversation with Mr. Thomas

26

Wallace, my old bachelor friend; and how I enjoyed
the stories which he would tell me. Mr. Wallace is
a born story-teller, and some of his stories would
make a unique book if they could all be written out
in an appropriate style. I remember the time when
I first became interested in literature, and how I
used to love such papers as the old Yorkville "Yeo-
man," the old "Sunny South," "The Youth's Com-
panion," "The Constitution," "Fireside Gem," "Com-
fort," "Tom Watson's Magazine," "Watson's Maga-
zine," and "Watson's Jeffersonian Magazine." Ah!
yes, those were the happiest days of my whole life;
and I sball cling to my memories of them as long as
I live in this world. I love them as I would love
my soul's mate. I remember all about the strange
dreams which I used to have, and what profound
impressions they would leave on my mind.
But I think some of my day-dreams were much
stiangsr than these which I had in my sleep, how-
ever; since T know I am much more of a day-dream-
er than any one has ever thought I was. I remem-
ber the strange, frightful, fascinating witch, "hant"
and ghost tales which I used to hear the colored
people relate, with all of a colored person's queer
powers of narration and description; and how it all
would charm me, while it also would make me fee!
very strange. I remember the strange fascination
that the suu, moon and stars have always had for
me, — and even yet I never tire of talking about
them. I remember the sweet tunes which my moth-
< i- used to sing as she went about her daily house-
hold labors, and how I enjoyed them. And some-

27

times she sings them yet, too. I remember the
time that I went over to Mr. Wallace's home, on a
little sled and through the woods. It was in chest-
nut-dropping time, and Mr. Wallace gave me chest-
nuts to eat. I remember the time that I went to
see the blind minsterls. It was in the month of
October, and the minstrels had entertained at a
school house near my home the night before. But
as I could not attend the entertainment, I went in
daylight to see them. They were resting at a neigh-
bor's house that day; — and I did so want to see and
hear them! They were a middle-aged man and his
son, who were both blind, and a little girl who
wasn't. She was the elder minstrel's daughter; and
she was, truly, eyes for both her father and brother,
— if ever any one was!

I remember the first time that they took me to
church. I was visiting at Uncle Jackson's, ten miles
from, home, and one Sunday afternoon he took me
to Beth-Shiloh. And I think it made some of the
congregation feel strange; for they evinced some
concern when my uncle carried me in. I also re-
member the singing and preaching very well; for I
truly enjoyed it. They had no organ at Beth-Shiloh
then, either; still, they sang well, I thought.

And so I shall now close this chapter. My memory
is my dearest treasure in this world, as it is also
my most painful one sometimes. For in deed and in
truth, "my mind to me a kingdom is."

May I never abuse it!

28

Chapter vi.

1 have acquired my education by studying at
home, and without any assistance from any one.
My mother, sisters, and brothers first taught me
some; after which I have just continued my studies,
alone and unassisted. And so for twelve long-, weary
years I have read, studied and written. Sometimes
I have become almost discouraged, too. I somehow
ielt that I never could attain the height at which
I have always aimed; nevertheless, having once
started, 'twould never do in the world for me to turn
back. My own family have encouraged me all they
could; but having been very poor, they could do
nothing in a material way. Papers, books, letters,,
post cards and magazines have been literally show-
ered upon me by my friends and admirers almost
everywhere; and while I have read much, I never
could read all that I. received. Among those who
have given me especial encouragement to write are
to be found many eminent and distinguished people,
as well as many others of lesser degree. Indeed,
everybody I have ever seen, or ever heard of
has urged me on in my work. Somehow or other,
they all seem to believe that I have something in
me which they want to see brought out and develop-
ed. But I only see it in this light: I am filled with
an intense desire to acquire a liberal education, to
become a successful author, to earn an honest liv-
ing, to one day build me a magnificent home, to one
day see my own dear mother given a rest from a
life-time of drudgery, to battle mightily for the

truth, and to finally become enshrined in the hearts
of the common people. I have one other desire, too;
but I cannot express it here. It is the world-old
yearning which every man or woman possesses for
his or her soul's mate. I know that I can never do
as others do, the world over; therefore I shall en-
deavor to find companionship in books. Ah! if I
could only do away with my "aching void!'' Even
now as I write, my soul is troubled by a secret sor-
row. Love, inability to- satisfy the craving of my
carnal nature, my lofty yearnings after that which
is beyond my reach, my inability to control my evil
and passionate temper, the fear that I am often
misunderstood, and countless other little things all
combined to form the low, dark, dreary side of my
nature. Still, my faith never wavers. It is as strong
today as it ever was. The one comfort that I have
is my unlimited faith in the "Father's goodness.
Many and many a time have I prayed, in almost an
agony of spirit, for guidance. But let it all pass
now. I can tell no more. Draw a curtain over it,
and henceforth let my past remain concealed from
view. I have lived an honest, true life; therefore
my little sorrows do not concern the world.

I have acquired my education by reading, think-
ing, writing, studying, and observing. I have ac-
quired it by talking with people, contemplating the
greatness and goodness of our Father, by reading
the Word, by observing the "shallow crowd" or the
"passing show," by attending country dances —
where they play on the banjo, violin or French harp
and dance, and by just striving to learn, every day

30

of my life, something new and strange. I have ac-
quired it by and from books, from people, from
flowers, from music, from poetry, from the earth
below, and from the heavens above. I have, literally,
received knowledge and instruction from every
source within my reach. Still, my life has been a
hard strrugle, containing a very great deal of sor-
row and discouragement. But after all, I believe
that mine has not been as hard and pity-inspiring as
many another's. Therefore, I am encouraged and
comforted. I have always had enough to eat and
wear; kind parents, brothers and sisters; loving
friends and relatives; and, generally, a paper kind
enough to allow me space in its columns.

I remember the first letter that I ever wrote, and
how proud of my achievement I was. I can also
remember the first one that I ever received. I re-
member my first visit away from home. It lasted
a week. I was at niy Uncle Jackson's, ten miles
distant; and while I was there, I visited around
some in the neighborhood. Briefly stated, my life
has been spent in whittling, trying to play on my
banjo, reading and writing, visiting, building air cas-
tles, attending picnics, preachings and parties, play-
ing on my French harp, and penning "copy'' for the
local paper's. Mr. Cain once gave me an old banjo,
but I've never learned to play on it at all. Being
left-handed, the banjo is not an instrument for me

I remember the first party that I ever attended,
and how well I enjoyed it. In the country, they have
what they call parties; but which are, in reality,
country dances. The young people of the neigh-

31

borhood all assemble at a neighbor's house, where
they have music, dance, talk and laugh, "sport," and
have a good time generally until about midnight,
when they break up and depart for their respective
homes — to dream of the fine time they have had.
And of course, many rustic lovers have to '"see as
many more of the opposite sex home' from these
parties, tco. I myself have furnished the music .for
them, on my little French harp, at some of their
parties; for which they gladly paid me in coin of the
realm. And once, at one of these parties, I fell in
love — but I'll reserve that for another time. It would
require more time, space, and ornamentation than
I now have at my disposal to tell my own love story.
Nevertheless, I have one. Sometime I intend to
publish it— but not now. Will only say that my own.
love story has made a man of me.

I have written for the old Yorkville "Yeoman,'* the
old "Sunny South" of Atlanta, Ga., "The Practical
Farmer" of Philadelphia, the old Yorkville "New
Era," the Rock Hill "Record," and am now working
on The Gaffney Ledger. Life is pleasant for me
now. I have lived to overcome many of my troubles,
and success is about to crown my efforts. I have
penned an immense amount of "copy" for The Led-
ger, but my message has not been delivered yet.
Next year I am going to continue my work— if it be
the Father's will. The next chapter will describe
my home life as it is today.

"A sacred burden is this life to bear,
Look on it, lift it, bear it solerrinly,

32

Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly,
Pail not for sorrow, falter not for sin,
But onward, upward, till the goal ye win."

— Kemble.

CHAPTER VII.

I have not given, in the foregoing pages, quite
as complete a history of my life and work as was
possible; for lack of time and space forbade my
doing so. Nevertheless, I hope that my readers
will not be too badly disappointed with my book.
I have truly labored hard and devotedly on this
manuscript, and sometimes I have come very near
giving it up as an impossible task. But each time
that thought entered my mind, it was quickly follow-
ed by another and a stronger. My friends have
clone so much for me since I began my literary
career that, somehow or other, I just could not af-
ford to lay down my work at this stage. And, too.
what my brain had created my brain refused to
disown. Hence this little book is timidly and prayer-
fully submitted to the reading public.

I am studying every clay now. I have acquired
some education along the lines of English, gram-
mar, history, and general literature; but I must ad-
mit that I am sadly deficient in other branches of
learning. Will N. Harben is my favorite novelist
living today, and Thos E. Watson is my favorite
writer on politics and economics. I love my file of
old "Watsons" very devotedly, too. Percy Bysshe
shflioy is my favorite poet of yesterday, and F-ranfc

33

L. Stanton is my favorite singer of today. I com
sider Shelley's lines on "The Cloud" the most sub
lime thing of the sort that I have ever read. "Ruck
of Ages" is my favorite hymn, and "Home Sweet
Home" is one of my favorite pieces of music; al-
though I've so many musical favorites that it is
hard for me to make one selection from thsm all.
I love beauty in all things and everywhere; indeed,
my very soul yearns, always, for beauty, and sym-
pathy, and harmony, and companionship, and love.
I can remember some incidents in connection with
my early life which always make me sad. I am by
nature rather light-hearted; but I believe that, away
down below the surface, I am capable of feeling very
tenderly and sympathetically.

I have my father and mother, and brothers and
sisters with me yet; and they are. all very kind to
me. And the most beautiful thing about their de-
votion is, that it is not at all a put on — it is as natur-
al for them to be so as for their hearts to beat, i
know that I am not always satisfied; for I am only
human, after all. Still, my happiness does not de-
pend upon my securing other companions besides
those I have always had with me. Other girls have
made impressions on me, it is true; and I love to
build air castles around "the dearest one." But that
is all. I know that I do love somebodj^, though my
affliction forever cuts me off from the realization
of "love's young dream." When I first began to
write for publication, I -seemed lonely and forsaken.
But now my correspondence has made me many
warm friends. It is generally conceded by every

34 '

one that the world has little charity indeed; but on-
ly those who work on the newspapers know just
how much goodness there is in it; all that it con-
tains in every form of creation shows some good, I
believe. And sometimes the manifestations of my
friends' love for me almost bring the tears to my
eyes. It was only the other day that I received a
queer little communication which awakened the ten-
derest of sentiments in my heart. It was a short
letter, and the price of one copy of this book, from
a little unknown girl. Ah! what emotions of sym-
pathy and gratitude that passed in my mind as I
persued her dear, little childishly-penciled note!

Kind friends, one and all, I have not told the com-
plete story of my life — because I couldn't. I should
love to do so yet, but I cannot. I have not lived
enough of it. When I am quiet and thoughtful, I
can remember many things which should have found
place in the foregoing. Therefore when I go to have
a, new edition published — which I intend to do — I
shall perhaps be able to tell my complete history.

As the closing lines are being written this Sep-
tember afternoon my mind is busy among the ashes
of other days. Somehow, it is too full for speech.
I would fain go on — but something bids me stop.
So I must obey the Voice within. But the finest,
most sublime, beautiful and tender sentiments of
my soul must remain untold for yet a little
while to come. I have not related how I used to
make "gins," "threshers," etc., with my pocket
knife; how I used to think there was nothing to
compare with the beautiful spring-time and autumn

36

in Dixie; and neither have I given any of our old
play songs. But farewell! gentle readers. Read in
these pages my story, and then remember a poor,
lonely, afflicted shut-in brother who longs for your
devoted love and sympathy. Girls, with brown eyes
and blue, remember me.

CHAPTER VIII.

As I have tat last succeeded in composing some-
thing which I am pleased to call a book, a few
words in closing may not be out of place. So, "here
goes" — to use a common expression:

The first part of my book is a section from
my scrap book — "Aspiration"— which I consider
one of the finest, purest, most sublime things
of the sort that I have ever read anywhere. The
author of it is unknown to me; ■ and the words
in brackets, "the 'good old summer-time,' " are of
my own insertion, since my story was written in the
summer of this year (1909.)

The second part of my book — "II Introduction:
James Stanhope Love, R. F. D. No. 1, Filbert, S. C,
July 16th, 1909," — is, for the most part, composed
of selections from Cicero and Dorothy Wordsworth.
They, too, have been chosen because of their liter-
ary worth.

The third part of my book — Chapter I — closes
with a quotation from James Montgomery: "I love,
thee O my native Isile!"

The fourth part of my book — Chapter II — closes
with a quotation from Goldsmith:— r

36

"By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd,
The sports of children satisfy the child."

The fifth part of my book-Chapter n— closes
with a quotation from Pope: —

"Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole."

The sixth part of my book— Chapter IV— closes
with a quotation from Shelley: —

"Music, when soft voices die
Vibrates in the memory."

The seventh part of my book-Chapter V-closes
with a quotation from Dyer: «My mind to me a
kingdom is."

The eighth part of my book-Chapter Vl-closes
with a quotation from Kemble: —

"A sacred burden is this life to bear,
Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly,
Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly,
Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin,
But onward, upward, till the goal ye win."

The ninth part of my book-Chapter Vll-is a
sort of description of my present state. And the
tenth part of my book-Chapter VIII-is just a
peroration, as it were, of the preceding.

The summer has departed; and with many other
things, it has taken away the sweet hours that I
have spent over my manuscripts. The autumn has
once more returned to Dixie; and while we heave a

37

sigh for the departed summer, we also rejoice at
autumn's coming. The Father has been so good to
us this year! And because of His eternal love, I
know He will continue t© bless us. The cotton is
opening, the trees are turning to a saffon hue, the
dry fir sings its last tune for this year, the whip-
poorwill is silent, the frost is truly coming, the boys
are out hunting 'possums at night, autumn fruits
are ripening, and Autumn with all of her natural
splendor is with us once more.

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